


Not anything anymore, only everything

by subtlyfailing



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02, Digimon Adventure tri.
Genre: A lot - Freeform, And loves him, F/M, Fluff and Angst, HIkari thinks about Takeru a lot, I don't know what to tag this as, Post-Loss, it's all over the place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtlyfailing/pseuds/subtlyfailing
Summary: Hikari dreamt of being back in the dark world. Of ink black oceans and charcoal smog. Her ears ringing with the sound of waves beating against a colourless shore. Her own heart hammering in her chest.She woke, and her bedroom was bathed in morning light.(Takeru had ripped dimensions apart to find her once.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”  
> ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

Hikari dreamt of being back in the dark world. Of ink black oceans and charcoal smog. Her ears ringing with the sound of waves beating against a colourless shore. Her own heart hammering in her chest.

She woke, and her bedroom was bathed in morning light.

 

(Takeru had ripped dimensions apart to find her once.)

 

She had been gone for so much of that first summer in the digital world. Feverish with a summer flu while her brother spent months or only five minutes in a world far away. Learning about bravery and sacrifice and fear. When Taichi showed up back home he seemed older, tired. He seemed far away and feeling the pull of a different world.

She had felt it too, that pull of something that she couldn’t quite place. Seeing Koromon, she knew exactly what he was, like an instinct, or a memory even if she had been too young the first time to remember the monsters tearing up her neighbourhood, disappearing without a trace. (Or blowing the whistle for hours, and going to bed with tearstained cheeks). She had grabbed on to her brother’s hand when the world had taken him back and wondered why they wouldn’t take her as well.

They did take her as well, afterwards. This beautiful, absurd world would bring her talking cats and dinosaurs and angels. And it would bring her fear and darkness, and it would bring her death.

(and it would bring her hope)

When they met, Takeru had already learned about terror and grief, watching the last flutter of Angemon’s wings as he faded into light.

She would learn it too, throat burning and that empty feeling as Wizardmon became dust in the wind. As so many of these beautiful creatures disappeared because they had believed in these small chosen children. Because they believed they could save their world.

They had been children marching off to war. Small and scared armed with a partner Digimon and quite a bit of stubborn courage.

Tailmon hadn’t remembered it after the reboot. None of them had, those magic little creatures with all their great strengths. They stood on the shore of a lake. On familiar soil. Wide eyed and new. Phantoms of their lost selves. Not anything anymore, only everything.

Hikari remembered all of it, and it haunted her.

 

The Digital World had brought her happiness and fear and talking cats. And it had brought her the Light.

 

(She rarely allowed herself to blame it (or was it _them_?) for taking her over. But when she was twelve and watching Ken half mad from the dark whispers in his ear, and she couldn’t help but feel violated.

Was this her role, this child of light? Was she an avatar of someone else’s use? She wondered this on her darkest days.)

 

There were roles they all had to fill, these chosen children. Taichi had shaped himself into a leader, the soldier, the brave. Steady on the frontlines of battle. Yamato had always been the knight, the protector. Even as he struggled to hold his little brother’s hand he had always been this. Mimi had been fiercely herself in all worlds, barbed wire tongue and stubbornly set shoulders, and a big heart. Koushiro had shaped himself up to be the tactician, drawing up plans with them all crowded around his small computer. Joe was the one who always thought two steps ahead, who stopped and considered and brought toilet paper and bandages to war because they might come in handy. Then there was Sora, who held their hands softly and made sure they loved themselves (because she never could seem to do the same for herself).

And then there was Takeru. Her Takeru. Child of Hope. The last battle was terror and chaos, and in the end, it was only them, hand in hand, falling to their deaths. This was Takeru shouldering the hope of all of them, the sacrifices people made for him (Angemon’s feathers falling softly to the ground, Piemon picking them off one by one by one, and Sora telling him to be brave to keep running and running and _don’t look back Takeru_ ).

Takeru held her hand or maybe she held his? Then they fell, and somehow they lived. Because this was Takeru. So long as he was still alive, there was still hope.

 

This was Takeru, ripping dimensions apart because she cried his name in a grey world that wanted to use her. This was Takeru after the reboot, introducing himself to Patamon like it was the first time they met, because maybe it didn’t matter that Patamon didn’t remember File Island, or dying and being reborn, or that summer they spent on the front lines of a war? Because at least he was here, uncorrupted and alive.

This was Takeru. Their hope. Her hope.

 

_There is no Hope without Light, and Light cannot shine without Hope._

 

She was the Child of Light. But what did that mean? Who did she shape herself up to be?

When she was nine, she had been fever sick and shaking, and then her body had suddenly not been her body. Someone higher borrowed her mind, walking with her legs, speaking with her mouth. She had been crying, crying because the digimon were hurting, and then some divine being had tucked her away and kept its brain in her. 

(They had called her queen. Chanted her name. Why? It hadn’t been her, had it?)

 

Was this her role? Weak to the whisperings of the light? Waiting for them to take her over again when they needed it?

At twelve she had been stolen to another world because creatures made of shadow and terror thought her light could be of use to them. At fourteen, divine forces tucked her away again, borrowing her skin to guide their cause. She woke up familiarly feverish, head filled with cotton. She felt just as violated as she had done the first time.

Was this her role? A tool of someone’s making, for someone’s convenience?

Was she there because her brother needed someone to protect? Because Daisuke needed someone to want? Because Miyako needed a friend? _And what about you, light ones, divide ones, whatever you are. Do you need a body? Do you need my tongue or my legs or my light? Take it. But I wish you’d leave a bit of me for me too._  

 

Hikari woke from dreams of black oceans, shaking under layers of blankets.

Sometimes Tailmon was there with her. When that world would allow them to stay together for a while. She would curl up close and most nights that was enough.

But other times she was alone, shaking in the light of the moon. She would hug herself under the blankets and whisper into the dark _shh you’re safe, you’re here and you’re safe. Don’t you see Kari? Black oceans can’t hurt you. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe._

(Sometimes she knew that Takeru was awake as well, somewhere in the other side of town. She knew that he woke up from nightmares as well, shaking under layers of blankets.

 _You’re here_ , she wanted to tell him. Tired eyed and distant. _You’re here and I’m here._

_The light inside you is hope. Hope cannot shine without light. Let me carry you, too._

_You are my light, can’t you see? I want to carry you too.)_

 

 

Ken would spend the rest if his life trying to wipe his hands clean of everything that he did as the Digimom Kaiser. Of black rings and cracking whips. Cruel experiments and Wormmon turning to dust on the wind.

Hikari watched Ken break, on his knees in desert sand. And she thought in that it might just as well have been her. Driven mad with the ghost of something or another whispering in her ear, with a fear that left her bones brittle.

It might as well have been her going numb to the voices in the back of her head at night time, guiding her hands towards something dark, deciding they needed her and giving her no say in the matter. She was no stranger to strange things taking residence in her body after all. The light ones left her with cotton filling her skull. Dizzy with dust on her clothes.

She woke up and wondered if they had seen her thoughts when they pushed her out of her own mind? If they had seen all the fear and the darkness and the little voice whispering _what if we fail?_ _What if I’m not enough? What if this is a mistake? How can I be their light? How how how?_

She spent years wondering if they had seen her thoughts back then, and if they could see them now. Even back in her own world. Those nights when she felt heavy with darkness, when ink black waves were beating in her ears, she couldn’t help but wonder if they would be disappointed in her.

 

 _(It couldn’t have been you_ , Takeru said, and took her hand.  

_I wouldn’t let it have been you.)_

 

They called her the Child of Light. The most important of all of them.

But the light borrowed her body without asking. They tucked her self away in the back of her own mind, and walked her small, feversick body through damp catacombs under an empty city. They needed her voice they explained. They left her dizzy on the damp ground, and she did not remember the words they made her tongue form. But she remembered waking up knowing it hadn’t been her speaking. She remembered them whispering in her ear, and everything going quiet.

Hikari watched Ken break on desert sand and thought it might as well have been her. It might have been her with hands that were not her own but still were, cold around a whip instead of shining with someone else’s light. It's such a short distance between light and darkness after all. 

Kari dreamt of black oceans and woke up shivering in morning sun. But Takeru had found her when she had lost herself, ripping dimensions apart to pull her back. 

 

She thought she might have loved him in that moment (she had loved him in that moment). She had cried his name on a colourless beach, and then there he was, glowing halo bright against the dead of that world. He was much brighter than she had ever been, she thought. 

They called her the Child of Light. Sometimes she felt like she was flickering, somehow Takeru always shone. 

It was strange, almost unfair. She was Light, she was the one who was supposed to light up the world when darkness set in. But there she was. Always, always seeming to lean on him.

 

 _(It wouldn’t have been you_ , _Hikari. Not you. I promise_

_How can you know?_

_Because it’s you. It’s me. Because the world would be a little less bright without you in it. Because I’d sooner die than let them take you.)_

  
She was fourteen and thought she loved him. This halo bright boy. This was Takeru. This was sunlight on golden blonde hair, whipcord muscles on a basketball field, growing taller than her at eleven and not letting her forget it for the entire year. This was a stubborn jaw, an unflinching stare in the face of the darknesses that seemed to always, always try and drown her.

This was Takeru writing down every detail of their adventures in a battered moleskin. Of every battle, every loss and every victory (and every creature killed. It had been war after all. And they had been children on the front lines. They had done what was necessary. But that didn’t stop the nightmares from coming). They would become books someday. It was a way to remember, he said.

This was quiet conversations under the starry sky of another world, faces bathed in campfire light, warm fingers intertwining with her own and _do you remember the first time we were here Hikari? I won’t soon forget the way the mountains rolled in the wind like trees._

_(Do you remember the first time we were here, Hikari? Did we understand back then what we were doing? Children on the front lines of war. We killed so many, we let so many sacrifice themselves for us._

_I remember,_ she said. And held his hand against the memories. _)_

 

_There is no Hope without Light, and Light cannot shine without Hope._

_Light cannot shine without hope._

 

Azulongmon’s words echoed in her soul for years, and she felt like she had known them all along. They were connected. They were the same. Light and hope, hope and light.

Yet Takeru didn’t lean on her the same way she leaned on him. She watched him nine years old and shouldering the hope that all of them needed. Shouldering the responsibility of them all falling to the enemy while he and she got away. (She watched him at nine, falling to his death, at twelve, trapped underneath an ocean with oxygen growing scarce and deciding that they might as well do the job they were here to do. _If we die, at least we got it done._ This was Takeru, somehow still finding hope, because this is _who he is_ ).

And she watched him at twelve, shaking fury against rising darknesses. (Iori feared the set of his shoulders, the cold of his hatred watching Ken play with the lives of digimon like a child with a loaded gun. He thought it was a weakness, something to be feared. Hikari wanted to scoff. Because this was Takeru. Ever glowing against everything that tried to drown her. That had drowned Ken, that would drown Matt and Sora and all of them if they let it fester. This was Takeru, glittering halo bright, commanding angels. Ever uncorrupted by the whispers of darkness that would chain her down.

This was Takeru, knowing white hot hatred, knowing bitterness, knowing fear. Towing near enough to kiss it, but never letting it touch him.

 

_(Let me carry some of it for you, Child of Hope._

_Let me carry you for just a little bit.)_

There was no hope without light. There was no light without hope.

She watched him, this Child of Hope. There were stresses in his spine. There was a tiredness in his shoulders at twelve already, and that didn’t seem to go away. And for all her Light, she couldn’t do anything about it. She leaned her head against his warm shoulder.

He was tired, watching the fire, holding her hand. Her head was on his shoulder.  

 _Does it bother you,_ she asked. And didn’t know if she meant her fingers intertwined in his, or the way Patamon had to learn his name all over again.

Takeru shook his head.

 _We’re here, all that matters is that we’re here,_ he said, and she didn’t know what question he answered either.

 

(When the Dark Ocean took her a second time, he wasn’t with her.

He would apologise for it sometimes, in the middle of conversations. Months and months after it happened. Miyoko had pulled her back – or she had pulled herself back with a little incentive (a stinging red mark on her cheek, a friend like a sister, pride that she could _do this_ ). But he would still apologise for not being there. When she looked tired or she looked sad or there was a lull in a conversation.  

_I thought I lost you Kari, I felt you slip and I couldn’t reach you and I thought I’d lost you. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

_But you didn’t._ She kissed his hands. _I am here, Takeru. You are here.)_

 

Takeru watched the fire. He let her rest her head on his shoulder. He let her hold his hands. She wished she could make him see that her darkness wasn’t his to carry, to please let her share a bit of all those burdens that weighed him down. She wanted to kiss those hands that always held her afloat.

(He was always there when she needed it. Always gone when he was the one with his toes wading in black waters.)

They were fourteen and Patamon had flickered with corruption. Takeru hid the bleeding wound on his forearm, and broke down to despair behind locked doors. (He felt it when the dark ocean took her. She would apologise for years for not being there when he needed it).

But then it was after the reboot, and Takeru was calm and gentle against all of their disbelief. He always amazed her this Child of Hope. What did it matter that Patamon did not remember him? What did it matter that they had grown up like brothers? Matured in a world that had wanted them dead? He was alive and that was enough. They were all alive, and that was enough.

Hikari shut her eyes tight and breathed in his Light. He always amazed her. He never seemed to flicker.

 

(He never seemed to let her see him flicker. But there were bags under his eyes, and she wished she could carry some of the weight he always seemed to take on.)

The light ones had borrowed her body when they needed it. Then they left her untouched for years. They had called her child of light, the most important one of all. But the crest around her neck hung dim and unused and she wanted to curse it. What was the point of this power if she could not light his path when he needed it?

Was she there for her brother to protect? Because someone out there needed a voice?

 

Or maybe it was because Plotmon had been given a second chance for happiness by her side. Maybe it didn’t matter what someone had meant for her to be. Maybe she would be what she wanted instead? Maybe she could shape herself up to be what she herself needed.

 

Light cannot shine without hope, can it? Hope cannot continue to shine without light either. Takeru let his head rest on top of hers. The fire was dying but he was warm, and so was she.

 

 

_(God, I want to carry you too._

_You do, Kari, don’t you know it? You do.)_

                                                                                                    

 

She was fourteen and loved him. They had been nine and falling to their deaths hand in hand. Twelve, bright in a world that took all colour away. They had been fourteen and figuring out these feelings. Tired, watching the fire in a familiar world. Hands clutching each other’s tight.

They lost something and decided that what did it matter, they would build it up again.

 

(They hadn’t lost anything, had they? Patamon slept curled up by Takeru’s side. Plotmon curled up in Hikari’s lap. They had to relearn their names. Make new memories. They hadn’t lost anything, had they? Only everything.)

They had lost so much and would lose more still. But Takeru was by her side, tall and bright and calm and gentle. And she was by his side, and maybe that was enough.

 

They would be thirty someday, with their feet treading familiar soil. There would be children playing where they had fought, and won and cried and played too.

Takeru was writing books, his shoulders a different kind of tired. That good kind, the kind you get because your children are loud and happy and want piggybackrides on hot summer days. And Hikari was a schoolteacher. This was something she could do with her own voice. Her voice that someone had borrowed once.

They would be thirty and they would have fought many battles. They would have lost many, too. But they were all there, Takeru was tall and bright and so was she.

 

Hikari dreamt about her children playing on familiar soil. She dreamt of oceans beating against the shore, blue and beautiful.

She woke up, and the light of morning kissed her face.  


End file.
